


Leave Behind

by dontwannaleavethecongo



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Death, Drinking, Hurt No Comfort, Sad Ending, Violence, Vomiting, dissatisfying ending, people die, pondering and confusion, threatens of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 08:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15636618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontwannaleavethecongo/pseuds/dontwannaleavethecongo
Summary: **WARNING: This is a somewhat angsty fic that explores the idea of post-blind betrayal that leads to a dissatisfying ending** **MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH: Do NOT read if that bothers you**Elder Maxson won the war against the Institute and Danse was given a second chance.





	1. The Prydwen

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I missed anything in tags. Im going to add another warning here that this is an angst fic that does have a very dissatisfying ending. I just wanted to explore, in a short blurb, a possible ending.

The bottle cap popped and the liquid inside fizzed slightly. His hand clamped firmly around the glass. The taste as the liquid passed his lips caused him to grimace. Unlike many of his coworkers, he still wasn’t used to the flavor of hops. Even ‘fresh’ ale still had much to be desired.  
He looked around at the room around him. People were bustling with excitement. Drinks in hand and cheers in their hearts. He watched as a few of the soldiers clap one another’s backs offering words of support and encouragement. As much as today was a celebration, it was also a dirge. Many well-doing men and women met the ill fate of death earlier that week in the Brotherhood’s, arguably, most deadly assault. And though The Institute was blown further into the bowels of the earth, the real work had just begun.  
For now, his mind was elsewhere. The events prior to all of this. His assent to Elder, his campaign in taking back the Commonwealth, and the destruction of The Institute. His hand tightened around the glass bottle. That bunker, that damned bunker. Danse. The knife in his hand. Danse greeting his Elder with open arms and an understanding smile. The dread that coursed through his blood when he-  
“Congratulations Elder Maxson!”  
His eyes snapped back open, he didn’t know he had closed them so tightly. The merriment had surrounded the barstool he was sitting at. It was heated and unpleasant to his senses. He offered only a nod to the knight that had pulled him from his thoughts and took another sip from the bottle in his palm. The knight wandered away unaware of his actions and instead joined a circle of soldiers chanting “Drink!” over and over again. Elder Maxson couldn’t take it anymore. He suddenly stood up, sick to his stomach. He marched to his quarters, tired and broken. Scribes, knights, and paladins alike raised their drinks to him. He ignored them, their useless trills and chatter. The heavy door slammed shut behind him and he rushed towards his private bathroom. He dropped the bottle at the entryway, glass and ale shattered across the floor leaving a sticky, acrid mess.  
He heaved into the toilet. If the ale didn’t taste good going down, it sure as hell didn’t taste good coming back up. He moved back, body slumped against the bathroom wall. His hands running through his hair and his breathing quickened. Tears threatened his once proud eyes, but now he felt undignified. Unfit to rule this chapter of The Brotherhood of Steel. His head rolled back and he cried himself to sleep on his bathroom floor.


	2. The Bunker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The next chapter is where the big warnings come into play, though it is not depicted explicitly I just want to make sure you know to prepare yourself**

Danse didn’t know why he was alive. He was outed as a synth, and he always had some inkling of an idea tucked away in the back of his head. It gnawed at him, like a mole rat gnawed on tough flesh. He was packing, quickly, and only the essentials. Clothes, a 10mm, ammo, and food. His fingertips caressed the outer packaging of the Insta-Mash. Did he really even need to eat?  
Now was not the time for existential questions. He shook himself out of his stupor and reached for the buckle on the knapsack. A sudden pang overtook him. He was leaving behind everything that had ever meant anything to him. The Brotherhood. Fighting for the right thing. For Elder Maxson. Correction. For Arthur Maxson. As the title now felt heavy on his heart. He had no right to address the young man that way.  
Knapsack now fastened securely around his build, it was time to leave. He thought he would head up north, avoiding Brotherhood outposts along the way, towards New York or Maine. Maybe find refuge there and build a boat. He had heard of a place called Far Harbor that helped those like him, and as much as he abhorred the idea, he had nowhere else to go. He stepped out on the elevator and was reminded of why he was able to see sunlight again for another day.  
His Elder had stood before him, a sharp blade in hand and anger in his piercing, blue eyes. Danse had understood what needed to happen. He was scared, but ultimately, he told Elder Maxson that he needed to be the example, not the exception. The Elder prowled forward, maintaining the alpha like composure he never let down. Danse remembered he had opened his arms to welcome his death. But once their eyes met for what Danse thought was the last time, something changed in Maxson. Though the blade was held at Danse’s throat, it never made a move.  
Danse didn’t know why he was alive. Either by the Elder’s mercy or by his pity, he couldn’t decide which. What he did know now, was that he needed to get far away from the Commonwealth.


	3. Arcadia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SAD CHAPTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FINAL WARNING**

It had been well over a year since the two men had seen each other. And now they stood opposite the battlefield. Elder Maxson had changed a lot. He had a few more scars, and the bags under his eyes made a permanent residence on his face. Though he was young, grey hairs shone out against his natural brown color giving him the appearance of being older than he was. The Elder hefted up his minigun, readying it to fire at his objective.  
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” the sorrow no longer there as it was a year before.  
Danse hadn’t changed much. He still looked like Danse. Same black hair, same brown eyes, but also with a few extra scars to boot. Synths, especially coursers, were designed to never grow old, never get sick. Food, as it turned out, was not a necessity and more so a technique to blend in with a human populous. Thanks to the wisdom of DiMA, Danse knew and understood more about himself. But none of that mattered now. He lifted his gun and cocked the hammer back.  
“Why didn’t you,” Danse demanded, “you had the chance, so why didn’t you?”  
Arcadia crumbled around the two and a fire swelled from the machinery in the room, filling the air with smoke and embers. A few of the synth refugees tried running towards an exit but were quickly shot down by a few Brotherhood soldiers. The fire swelled again, eating Elder Maxson’s answer. Danse pulled down on the trigger, Arthur returned the favor, and both men were finally at peace.


End file.
